


The Old Goat and the Riviera:  Chicago, 1927

by sageness



Category: due South
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon - TV, Challenge: due South Seekrit Santa, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/sageness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>RayK & Vecchio speakeasy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Old Goat and the Riviera:  Chicago, 1927

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Due South Seekrit Santa, 2007 for Isis. Special thanks to China Shop &amp; Nos for beta-reading.

_ _May, 1927_ _

The sledgehammer smashed through the brick of the Riviera Club's north wall, slowly exposing the basement on the other side. "Beer," Ray Kowalski said, and thanked Rolly, the Vecchio cousin tending bar this shift, when he handed over a seidel of special dark.

Further down the bar, a handful of regulars drank beer or rye, though it was only half-past noon, and watched the wall come down. Rolly polished the mahogany bar top. Ray stood with his back to the bar and watched the brick dust billow.

An hour later, there was a nice, wide passageway between the Riviera and Ray's own joint, the Old Goat. Ray Vecchio paced back and forth between tables, haranguing the workmen into cleaning up their mess on the double.

To get into the Old Goat, a fella would go into the laundry on Robey Avenue and take the staircase in the back room down to the basement. Mrs. Brezinski had a button under the counter that sounded an alarm if any cops pushed in. It sounded monthly: once each time Ed O'Rourke came by to collect the month's protection money and have a drink.

Downstairs, the Old Goat amounted to a short walnut bar with six stools, eight tables, and a big cathedral-style radio set next to a postage-stamp-sized dance floor. There was a single toilet in one half of the broom closet, but they didn't even have a cloakroom, just a row of coat trees by the stairs.

But now most of the wall separating his little speakeasy from the Riviera was missing and the workmen were busy at a new section of wall, chipping through to an old construction tunnel that opened out in the basement of a West Grand Street warehouse.

"Well?" Vecchio said.

Ray cocked his head. "I still say we should put the stage in the corner."

"And again, Kowalski, you're thinking too small. How would Benny Goodman's orchestra fit in the corner? Or Duke Ellington's?"

Ray put his seidel of beer down and folded his arms. "You're going to get the Duke."

"We are, sure. We'll get anybody who plays the Dill Pickle. Hell, we'll get anyone who plays Kelly's Stables."

Ray let out his breath in an explosive laugh. "Whatever you say, Vecchio."

Vecchio glanced over Ray's shoulder and nudged him into a stroll toward the corner in question. "What I say," he said quietly, "is that my uncle Lorenzo has it on the, ahem, highest authority that Mr. Capone is mad for the jazz-band sound and this is better than setting up new clubs for them to play in. Why do you think they wanted us to ditch the wall?"

These few blocks were a violent mix of Polish, Jewish, and Italian gangs, and the order to knock down the wall between the Goat and the Riv had everybody talking. "A symbol of Polish-Italian cooperation?" Ray suggested, grinning.

"Please," Vecchio scoffed.

"Hey, what do I know? Capone's best pal is a Jew, isn't he?" Ray knew perfectly well that Greasy Thumb Guzik was and Vecchio knew it, too.

Vecchio let out a pained-sounding sigh. "They begin the soundproofing work tomorrow."

"Swell. What about the cops?"

"My good friend Will Kelly and I have an appointment tomorrow."

"The lieutenant? You trust him?"

"Now that Decent Dever is gone, sure."

Ray considered. He hadn't known Vecchio for all that long yet, but he liked him and his connections fine, especially now that Big Bill Thompson was mayor again. Ray nodded. "Oke."

* * *

_ _June, 1927_ _

Now that he was one-half of a partnership, Ray could take a break once in a while and enjoy himself. Not to drink—he didn't ever drink when he was working—but boy, he sure liked to dance. And he and Vecchio had a great big new parquetry dance floor crying out to be used. The new kid from New Orleans, Louis Prima, was playing tonight, and they were hitting all the big numbers.

Ray turned to Vecchio. "You mind if I go for a spin around the floor?"

"Whoever heard of a man who danced so much without a dame making him?" Vecchio said, looking up from their accounts ledger.

"Fred Astaire," Ray answered without missing a beat.

"Yeah, yeah," Vecchio called after him. Ray didn't know how Vecchio could listen to a band play the new "hot" jazz and not feel his feet start to itch. The music rattled up through Ray's shoes, through his long bones until it was doing flip-flops in his gut. And that was without even looking at all the girls on the floor with their flimsy dresses that showed their tits when they moved.

Ray scanned the room for a girl he could trust for a dance and nothing more. It was a problem that kept him unattached from girls and had dumped cold water on his particular friendships with men. He couldn't afford to risk a relationship with a man who might blackmail him or a woman who might threaten to turn him in to the police. And he didn't want to worry about someone taking advantage for free drinks.

That turned the little matter of finding a dance partner into a riddle. It had to be a regular, someone who knew what she ought not to expect.

"Buy me a drink and I'll buy you a dance," Andie said, standing up on tiptoe to speak into his ear.

Ray kissed her cheek. "Hey there, kid. How are things tonight?"

"Slow," she answered, drawing out the word. She wore a silver lamé dress with a vee-neck cut down nearly to her navel and a string of black pearls.

"It's early yet," Ray said, leading her to the dance floor. "Let's show off your moves and maybe things'll start to look up."

The dance cost less than the drink, so he got three numbers out of her before Andie pressed a lacquered fingertip to Ray's scuffed tie bar. "Come on, Ray. Mrs. Metcalf is going to kill me if you keep this up."

"Sorry, doll."

Back at the bar, it was no time before old Ned Parker appeared. "What do you say, Andie?" They danced for less than a minute and left, no doubt heading up the block to Klondike Vic's house of sin.

"Surprised you didn't give her a tour of the can," Vecchio said, watching them go.

Ray jerked his attention up to Vecchio's face, away from the gentle slope of his neck above his starched collar. "Not my type."

"You don't like flappers?" Vecchio said in exaggerated surprise.

Ray's eyes flashed. "I don't like fifteen-year-olds."

But by then Vecchio wasn't paying attention. His eyes were on the two brunettes gliding away from the cloakroom counter. The first one was in black with a cloche hat and silver jewelry; she looked like she knew the scene just fine. The one behind her wore baby blue with a white feathered headband and pearls, and she was all eyes, as if this was the first time she'd managed to sneak away from her mother's apron strings.

"Oh, no," Vecchio said.

"Who's the twist?" Ray asked.

Vecchio rounded on him, pointing a long finger in his face. "You watch your mouth, Kowalski!"

Then the girl in black was there. "What do you know, Raimondo?"

" 'Lo, Ray," said the girl in blue.

"Aw, jeez, Frannie. Does Ma know you're here?"

Frannie rolled her eyes. "I'm not a baby, Ray."

"Are you going to introduce the ladies, Vecchio?" Ray said.

Vecchio shut his eyes like he was counting to ten or something. Then he opened them and said with too much politeness in his voice, "Ray Kowalski, may I present my cousin Eugenia and my baby sister Francesca."

"Call me Gennie," the one in black said, "everyone does."

"So nice to meet you," Frannie said. "We've heard stories."

"Kowalski doesn't need to hear about that," Vecchio cut in.

Ray winked at Frannie. "What'll you two have?"

"Ginger ale," said Vecchio with a glare.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Gennie said. "What do you think we're going to get up to under the same roof as you? You think your mama would let Frannie come out to anyone else's club?"

"She shouldn't be out at anybody's club," Vecchio said.

"And be the only girl I know who can't? Thanks a lot, _fratello_." Frannie said.

"Gin and tonic, please," Gennie told Ray.

"Me, too," Frannie echoed.

Ray laid a hand on Vecchio's shoulder. "It'll be fine, Vecchio. If the ladies are family, then we'll treat them like family. Right, Harding?" This last he aimed at the barkeep as a cue to mix the drinks light. Harding nodded and got to it.

The girls sipped their drinks and Ray danced with them both, and then Vecchio got them a table on the elevated aisle that overlooked the dance floor.

"How is this my life?" Vecchio said back at the bar.

"You know, I wonder that every day," Ray answered. "At least you have your uncle Lorenzo to thank."

* * *

_ _October, 1927_ _

"Look smart!" Vecchio said.

"What?" Ray lifted his head from the column of numbers he was tallying. In their books, each case of beer was a loaf of bread. Each keg was a round of cheese. Liquors were different types of fruit, by the case. Paying protection was fine, but it was no use against do-gooder nuts from the Treasury Department.

"Alderman Orsini just came in. Get a load of the dame he brought with him," Vecchio said, straightening his already-straight tie.

"Oh, hell," Ray said. "You handle him." Ray slammed the ledger, receipts still inside, and put it back on its shelf under the bar, right below the house shotgun.

"What, you know her?"

Ray shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Go make nice for us, all right?" Then Ray slid around Harding and mixed himself a Manhattan.

It would've been fine, he thought, but she stopped at the bar on her way back from the powder room. Ray tried to ignore her, but she said to Harding, "Do you think I could speak to Mr. Kowalski?" and he couldn't pretend she wasn't there anymore.

" 'Lo, Stella," he said.

"Evening, Ray."

"You look good." She always did look good in red, and he thought about saying so but bit his tongue instead.

"You, too," she said. He didn't answer and she didn't say anything else, so after a moment she tilted her head back toward her seat and said, "Later, then." Ray drained his drink and made another.

A moment later, Vecchio was there. "What, you and _her_? You've got to be kidding me!"

"Shut up," Ray said, "it wasn't like that."

"Sure looks that way to me."

Ray shot him a quelling look and swallowed some of his drink. "You know the Chicago Coach Company?"

"Sure."

"It's her grandfather's. It's where my old man worked all his life."

"Yeah, so?"

"So," Ray said with a glare, "Stella did dressage, you know, horseback-riding lessons, when she was a kid, and afterwards the livery hack brought her to Chicago Coach for her grandpa to take her home."

"And you know this because..."

"Because Ma sent me enough times to go watch Dad build carriages, or else to take him his lunch when he forgot. And since Stella couldn't leave, we used to play. The secretary used to keep a bag of marbles and a set of jacks in her drawer for us."

"Oke," Vecchio said, "so what's got you crying into your cocktail?"

"Not a thing," Ray said through clenched teeth.

"Aww, first love gone south, Kowalski?"

Ray didn't punch him, but only because he wobbled when he got off the bar stool and had to catch himself with both hands. "You're a real charmer, you know that, Vecchio?" Around them, the crowd was thinning. The piano player had started a wild hop and nearly everybody was on the floor. Even Stella and Orsini.

Vecchio just leaned on the bar and raised his eyebrow.

"We eloped, all right? We were sixteen, and we took a taxicab up to Evanston and got married. They caught us in the hotel not even an hour later. Then they sent her to boarding school in Europe and I didn't see her again for years."

Vecchio stared at him for a minute. "And you're still carrying a torch twenty years later?"

Ray rested his head in his hand. "Like you'd know love if it smacked you in the face."

"Hey, love's smacked me in the face plenty!" Vecchio said.

Ray's fourth drink was gone, and Vecchio was grinning at him like a guy waiting to be kissed...except, nah. It had to be the alcohol making him think that. After a long moment, Vecchio thumped his arm and walked off, his suit making an elegant line of his back under the charcoal wool.

Harding slid a fresh Manhattan into Ray's hand.

* * *

_ _December, 1927_ _

The buzzer from Mrs. Brezinski's laundry sounded, and Ray jerked his head up. It wasn't the first of the month. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. The band stopped. The bartenders put the high-dollar bottles in the briefcases hidden in the cabinets for that purpose, and the waiters opened the double-door to the tunnel.

"Go-go-go!" Vecchio shouted, and Ray told the bandleader, "Come by tomorrow and we'll square your fee."

Then they were running south through the tunnel toward Grand. After clearing the bottleneck on the warehouse staircase, their patrons scattered in all directions. Vecchio strode alongside Ray, kicking at lumps of dirty snow and cursing that his coat was back at the Riv. "When I find the bastard who ratted us out, he's going to wish he were never born!"

It was only a short walk to Ray's apartment building. His was on the third floor at the end of the corridor. He was a little bemused that Vecchio was still following him. "You don't want to get a taxicab back to your place?"

"Not if they're after you and me. I'm not going to bring that back onto my mother."

"They wouldn't do that. All they care about is who's on the premises."

Vecchio grunted and followed Ray inside.

"You think they'll smash up the glassware? They got to take the barrels out and pour them in the river, right? They wouldn't ruin the floor, would they?"

"I don't care about the hooch. Just, please God do not let them destroy that mahogany bar."

Ray pulled a bottle of whisky out of a hidden cabinet and poured. "Have a drink."

"Thanks," Vecchio said and threw it back.

Ray started to pour him another, and then stopped, thinking better of it. "You want to telephone your uncle Lorenzo? Maybe he knows what it's all about."

Vecchio blinked up at him. "That...is not a terrible idea." He went to the telephone and said, "Dearborn three-three-nine." Then he sat down in the armchair and waited. Ray didn't pretend not to listen.

"Uncle Lorenzo," Vecchio said, "this is Raimondo." The conversation swiftly moved into Italian, but Ray caught enough important words, like "Riviera", "Treasury Department", and "Outfit" to get the gist. He poured himself a drink.

When Vecchio hung up, he sat back in the chair and breathed a deep sigh of relief. "He's going to send a couple of the boys around later tonight to see how bad the damage is. The good news is you and me weren't the target."

"How does he figure?"

"You know your friend the Alderman?"

Ray scowled. "He's not my friend."

"Yeah, well him and your ex had a date at the club tonight, only someone gave the Feds the go-signal before Orsini and Stella made it inside."

Ray's mouth fell open. "Are you kidding me?"

"Do I look like a kidder to you?"

"Don't ask me what you look like," Ray said.

"Shut up and pour me another."

Ray poured. "Did you want to call a taxicab or borrow the sofa?"

Vecchio took another long breath. "Sofa?"

Ray nodded. "Fine with me."

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their whisky and thinking their own private thoughts. Stella had come awful close to a ride across the river in the paddy wagon that night, but Ray was less worried over that than he thought he'd be. His mind kept returning to Vecchio and how near he'd come to losing his partner. He wondered who they had to thank for the G-men's mistake. He wondered how long they'd have to wait to hear from Lorenzo how much of the Riv and Old Goat were demolished.

"You think we'll be able to open tomorrow?" Ray asked.

Vecchio shut his eyes in the way Ray had come to realize meant he was praying. "Dear God, I sure hope so." He opened the cover of his watch and shut it again. "I don't suppose we can risk going back tonight."

"Not if we're smart, but you can go if you like and I'll come bail you out in the morning." Vecchio glared and Ray flashed him a grin. Ray said, "We'll go after breakfast."

"All right." Vecchio drained his glass, stood up and stretched, and then said, "Say, do you have a set of pajamas I could use?"

Ray stared at him for a long moment before he figured out Vecchio wasn't joking. Then he said, "Yeah, actually. My mother sent some last Christmas I've never worn."

Vecchio smiled, and Ray tried hard to ignore the feeling in his chest.

With Vecchio sawing logs on the couch, Ray lay in his bed reading the new Dashiell Hammett story in _Black Mask_ magazine. He thought the snoring would keep him up all night, but instead it worked like a metronome and soothed Ray to sleep well before the story ended.

The telephone bell woke them at six. Ray took a tepid shower while Vecchio talked to his uncle.

"All the booze is gone and they scratched up the wood pretty bad. They smashed some glass, too, but the boys didn't know how much."

"Damn," Ray said. Vecchio looked like he wanted to punch something. "How are we gong to cover it?"

"We'll be jake."

"You know, Vecchio, saying that don't make it true."

"I'll figure something out in the shower."

"I, um..." Ray could feel the blush begin to rise at the thought of Vecchio in his shower. He turned toward the kitchenette. "I'll scramble some eggs."

* * *

_ _May, 1928_ _

"Happy anniversary," Vecchio said.

Ray grinned. "Been a crazy year, huh?"

It was three in the morning and they'd just sent Harding, Freddy, Rolly, and Will home for the night. The floors were mopped, the glasses washed, and the night's take was already in the safe.

Ray turned the knob on his new Westinghouse radio set. Sometimes late at night it would pick up broadcasts from far off corners of the world, but not tonight. Ray put a McKenzie and Condon's Chicagoans record on the Victrola instead.

Turning to Vecchio, Ray straightened his tie and steeled his nerve. "Dance?" Ray said.

Vecchio looked him square in the eye, a slow smile beginning. "I thought you'd never ask."

"A lot to lose if I was wrong," Ray murmured as Vecchio came near. "But after a year of waiting for you to make the first move, I figured I'd have to be the one to take the chance."

"I thought you were still hung up on Stella."

Ray shook his head. "Not for a long time. Ever since the cops busted in here, I, uh, can't get you out of my head."

"Oh yeah?" Vecchio said, chuckling as he pulled Ray onto the floor. "Who leads?"

"We can switch off," Ray said, moving them into a close foxtrot.

"Just don't expect me to be some kind of Fred Astaire."

Ray laughed softly. "If you don't expect me to be Ginger." Ray could do the foxtrot in his sleep. So could Vecchio, and "Sugar" was made for dancing.

"You like this," Vecchio said against his temple.

"I always like dancing with someone who knows how. Getting my toes stepped on isn't so much fun."

Vecchio made a noise of agreement. "I've never been this close to you before."

"I forget how tall you are," Ray said, twirling in a circle at the end of the promenade. Then he switched the placement of his hands. "Your turn to follow now."

"Oh great," Vecchio said, and promptly stepped on Ray's foot. Ray laughed it off, but the real comedy was Vecchio's hopelessly awkward spin at the end of the segment. Grinning, Ray put his arms back in the lady's position and took two slow steps back. Back in the gent's role, Vecchio relaxed again and smiled. They made two more rounds of it, and then the song came to an end.

Ray was trying to think of something clever to say, but Vecchio's mouth had all his attention. He wanted to kiss it, but maybe it was too soon. Then Vecchio was pulling Ray close, cradling his head, and pressing his lips to Ray's.

Ray kissed him back, licking into the heat of Vecchio's mouth. Stubble rasped against his face, and it made the kiss even better. For so long, Ray had believed he could never have this, and for the past month the mere sight of Vecchio made Ray's toes curl. Vecchio's hand tightened on Ray's neck, and Ray pushed his hips forward. Like himself, Vecchio was already hard in his trousers. It made Ray wonder if maybe Vecchio had wanted this for a long time, too.

"What do you want?" Vecchio said when they parted. "Do you want we should do this here? Up against the bar, maybe?" Vecchio kissed his neck and Ray shivered. "Or we could mess up one of our nice, plush velvet booths."

At that, Ray bit Vecchio's neck and said, "Like hell we will." Vecchio chuckled. "Come home with me," Ray said.

Vecchio's eyes glittered. "You going to make up the sofa for me, Kowalski?"

Ray shook his head. "I'm going to lay you down on my bed and touch every inch of you."

Vecchio kissed him again hungrily, one hand cupping Ray's face while the other strayed inside Ray's suit coat to scratch at a nipple. Ray suppressed a tremble of pleasure. If he let things go too far, they'd end up having sex in the middle of the dance floor, and he wanted his bed for this. Gently, Ray broke the kiss and started it over again, slower and more thorough.

When he stepped back, Vecchio was wearing a warm, but mischievous expression on his face. "So, did I mention that I drove tonight?"

Ray stared for a moment before understanding dawned: no one expected Vecchio home. They had all the time they wanted. Ray took Vecchio by the shoulders and kissed him again. "Why didn't you say so? I'll get the lights; you get us a bottle of something good."


End file.
